Relinquere
by semicolonial
Summary: She was his every breath, his every step. For her, he could have torn the world apart with his bare hands. And there was only her and Lucien. Lucien and her. And he watched her blood spread across the gleaming floors of the Autumn Court.
1. Thatcher and Xavier

**Summary: She was his every breath, his every step. For her, he could have torn the world apart with his bare hands. And there was only her and Lucien. Lucien and her. And he watched her blood spread across the gleaming floors of the Autumn Court.**

 **ACOTAR belongs to the lovely Sarah J. Maas.**

* * *

If Lucien could name one problem about himself, it was that he simply _cared_ too little.

It wasn't even that he didn't care; it was just that the small amount of _caring_ he ever put into anything was so few and far between that it was a miracle neither his father nor his brothers deigned to point it out. From his handsome face to his sharp tongue to even his high status, the young prince just...

...didn't bother.

And so it was that he lounged across the warm grass in his Mother's garden, the shade of a large apple tree graciously protecting him from the sun. He sprawled beneath it, gazing at the mosaic of warmly-painted leaves above him. They fluttered carelessly, and as Lucien let his eyes drift shut, he felt content. At peace.

Then something landed hard on his gut.

He let out an undignified "oompf" and whipped his head up to stare into the face of his brother.

Thatcher, the eldest, and perhaps the one Lucien feared most, smiled sardonically down at him, the hostility of his expression carefully veiled with a calculated elegance — it sent a cold chill spiderwalking down Lucien's back. his sharp, brutal features stretched into a wider grin, not missing Lucien's chattering teeth.

"It's your turn to go out and play with the riff-raff today, Lucien," he said, his voice thick with a lilt like dripping blood. "Give them the apples, if you can handle the stench, and remember to give it only to the ones who beg the most; these _are_ the apples from Mother's garden, after all, and I'd hate to see them wasted."

"Go easy on him, now, Thatcher. You know that your baby brother identifies with the rabble."

Both Lucien and Thatcher turned to face the third brother, Xavier as he leaned against an apple tree; Thatcher's thin lips contorted into a wry smirk, while Lucien scoffed as Xavier pushed his shoulder off from the tree and knelt down to the heavy basket resting on Lucien's stomach. He plucked an apple from it, an appreciative moan escaping his lips.

"You know, I really _don't_ understand why Mother insists on wasting her apples like this. They'd be perfect for our table."

"They _are_ on our table," Lucien remarked dryly. Xavier shot him a glare and continued, juice dribbling down his chin as he took another bite from the apple he'd taken.

"Less for them means more for us. The apples which Mother grows are too rich to be out and about on the streets like that."

Lucien turned his cheek in disgust, standing and hoisting the basket up. Some time ago, their mother had decided that it would be best to put their resources to good use by sending food to the lesser faeries; every week, she picked apples from the trees in their garden, tucked them carefully away into a basket, and sent one of her sons out to give them away. Lucien had been proud of her thoughtfulness. His brothers had not.

The thin truce that Thatcher and Xavier had seemed to make whilst they teased Lucien seemed ready to break. It had always been like that; the brothers were never around each other for too long, and when they were, their civility always vanished within a few moments. Sensing this, Thatcher nodded curtly, almost mockingly, to both Xavier and Lucien before taking his leave into the manor. Xavier cracked his neck and surveyed Lucien under a dark, judgmental gaze. The red apple in his hand gleamed like blood. Then his lips curled up.

"Enjoy yourself, _Little Lucien_."

He took one final bite of the apple, his teeth crunching to the core before he tossed it carelessly onto the grass.

All Lucien could hear was snapping bone and falling bodies.

* * *

 **Short chapter, sorry! It could just be considered a prologue, if you like.**

 **Reviews are gladly welcome. :)**


	2. Waking Storms

**AshryverEyes: AAAAH! Your review made me squeal out loud; your stories are awesome, and I'm so glad to see that you enjoy it so far!**

 **wardrobe: Lucien definitely deserves more love! He's a precious cinnamon roll too good for this world.**

 **As usual, I don't own ACOTAR.**

* * *

The Autumn Court's square was packed to the brim with colorful faeries, green bodies sprawled lazily across doorsteps, wings beating in delight at street performers. With his bright red hair and elegant features, Lucien stood out like a sore thumb as one of the few High Fae who meandered around the market. Erratic eyes followed the basket, and hungry mouths prepared to beg the young prince for its contents; the lesser faeries looked to each other uncertainly, waiting for the others to make the first move.

 _It's your turn to play with the riff-raff today, Lucien._

It was a small, brown-haired young faerie who approached him first. She was young, younger than him, and bony and sallow and everything that he was not. And, with a churning stomach, he watched as she sank to one knee, then to both, and lowered her lips to his shoe.

"Please, My Prince," she whimpered. "I have... I have two elder sisters. They'll starve. Your friends, they turned their cheeks away, but I pray that you are gracious enough not to become angry with me for imploring a seventh time."

Lucien squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly feeling nauseous. His brothers had never had a problem going out to help the Court; they had never felt anything but sadistic glee in teasing those who were less fortunate than they. Opening his eyes, he smiled tightly at the girl.

 _Give them the apples..._

"Take three."

Her face crumpled as he fished the apples from his basket, and she kissed his shoes one last time before taking the fruits and scurrying away. His eyes trailed her retreating form in sorrow, his heart wrenching as he watched her sit between two faeries; the three of them devoured their meals beside a corpse which decayed from whatever disease it had contracted in its lifetime.

 _...if you can handle the stench._

The walk through the poorer parts of the court always sent a metallic taste into his mouth, as though their hunger became his and it was their thirsts that dried his own tongue. He knew his brothers would reprimand him for giving not one, but three apples to the first beggar, but how could he possibly leave her starving?

The sickening thought in his mind intensified as a boy approached him next. His hair was the striking red that marked him as Autumn Court, but his features were thin and weak; Lucien nearly thought that he was a human posing as a faerie in the cesspits of the court. His pleas were the same as the girl's, albeit less convincing; Lucien swallowed.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. He turned away and watched the boy's eyes widen in shock while his hands reached helplessly for the basket. His fingertips grazed the handle before slipping away, the weight of his pull enough to tug down Lucien's own heart.

-o-

The afternoon was spent in the likeness of the morning, and the young prince was pallid and drained when the sun began to turn blood red. For every faerie he could help, it seemed that three more would take their place, begging more and more, each story more pitiful than the last. He only wished for the cool comfort of his bed, the moon's grin shining onto his marble floors. He only wished for an escape.

And he heard her before he saw her.

Her voice was quiet, with a caress like velvet but an edge like a sword. His eyes lifted from the elderly faerie before him, startled at the cut of the girl's tone above the crowd.

Her features were fierce, her cheeks sunken and her eyes stubborn. Her body was lean and lithe and thinned from perpetual hunger, and her hair, the color of brown autumn leaves, shook as she moved her head animatedly while arguing with another boy with hair like sun-dried wheat.

The pair's eyes turned to Lucien, both sporting the same storm-gray shade; but the storm behind the boy's was a tornado, aching and devouring everything in its path. And hers was a raging tempest, angry and full and violent with the force of loathing envy.

Envy at his status. Envy at his wealth. Envy at everything he'd ever taken for granted, and the color drained from his face as the thought sickened him to his core.

The boy took a step toward him, and the girl gripped his shoulder and snapped at him in what appeared to be a warning; but rather than pay attention to her, he growled softly, then advanced toward Lucien with caution, like a wolf on the prowl for his next kill. The prince tensed, gripping his basket tightly.

 _Remember to give it only to the ones who beg the most._

"Hello," the boy tested, eyes trained on Lucien's white knuckles. He tore his gaze away and stared into Lucien's eyes. "What would it take for you to give us apples?"

Lucien drew back in shock; it was rare to find a faerie who wouldn't get on their knees just for an apple, much less stare him in the eye and barter. "I... I'm sorry, do you really need them?"

"Yes. Give me two, please. One for me, and one for my friend." He jerked his head backwards at the brown-haired girl, who stared down Lucien with the same jealousy as before. Lucien looked at the boy, then looked at the crowd gathering behind himself, all moaning with hunger. He looked once more at the boy and at his companion, strong and proud and cold.

"I'm sorry. But there are others—"

"I know. But please — I can't remember the last time she's eaten. You don't know what it's like to go hungry. Please."

It was true, if not only for their staggering wealth. The lesser faeries' bodies worked differently than the High Fae; they needed food much more often whereas the High Fae often forgot that they even needed to sustain their own bodies with things such as meals. They ate more frequently for pleasure rather than survival. The pair, though, they were fortunate enough to _look_ like High Fae — it was only the red-orange sheen of their skin and their restless movements that gave them away — and Lucien knew they would be able to find more meals than their competitors.

But Lucien didn't respond to the boy before the girl clasped her hand on her friend's shoulder. "Don't bother. Our prince won't give us a scrap."

"Kaelyn," the boy murmured, but she held up a hand to stop him.

"Don't. Let him go back to his eight course meals at his manor, and let him dance the night away with spirits. It doesn't matter to me."

"He has food."

"Which he won't give us. Don't try to use me as a bargaining chip; he doesn't care. You've tried with his brothers, so what makes him any different?"

The boy was silent, his stare troubled and cracked now. He opened his mouth once more to plead with his companion.

" _No._ " Her voice was sharp and piercing. "I said _no_. We have more important things to worry about. Goodbye, _My Prince_. Please enjoy your day." She gave a low, mocking bow from her waist and tugged at her friend's elbow. "Let's _go_ , Andras. We can find our own food."

She dragged him through the sea of bodies, drowning them from Lucien's view. Her words cut deeply into a wound that bled and bled.

And Lucien knew he would never find a salve to heal it.

-o-

He had turned on his heel and wandered back home after the encounter, his mind numbed and his features slackened. His basket was still half-full; he hadn't stayed much longer to help anybody else, and the knives of his family's selfishness still dug deep into his sides.

The moon began to peek through the heavens, setting the treetops aglow like blood-red shadows.

And still her face appeared in his mind, her already-hollow cheeks sinking in distaste as she observed his silk-clad body and neatly-combed hair. And her teeth bared, and her fingers curled...

And then she was before him in the flesh, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her tunic. He jumped in surprise at the sight of her jarring brown hair, her cold gray eyes.

"How did you find me?"

It was her who spoke first, her voice accusatory and dripping with silver-toned spite.

"I didn't—" Lucien grit his teeth, feeling vulnerable and resisting the urge to snap. "Why would I go looking for you? You think you're the only one who asked me for apples today?"

"I didn't ask you," she replied coolly, amusement glinting in her gaze. "And even if I did, would you have indulged me?" Her arm grazed her stomach for a moment, the same staggering hunger painted on the faces of the other faeries finding a place in her features for a moment. Lucien studied her, annoyance beginning to etch his features at her quipping tone.

"I don't believe I ever caught your name."

"What, plan on executing me for speaking to you this way?"

"Ah, so you know just how disrespectful you were being."

"Well, I was only showing you the respect you deserved."

"What, none? For handing out apples to the poor?"

She stared him down for a moment, a disbelieving laugh pealing from her. Her body, still defensive, turned away from him, the moon illuminating her face like the glow of the treetops. He looked at her expectantly, before dipping into the same mocking bow that she had given him. She turned back to him in annoyance.

"It's my pleasure to meet you, Lady of Perpetual Rudeness. I am Lucien."

"Lucien," she quirked an eyebrow. "Seventh son of the High Lord."

"The same one." Lucien smiled lazily, glad to realize that the girl's pride wasn't intimidating as it had originally seemed; her boredom was far worse. He smirked at her nonetheless, refusing to allow her to see how greatly her words had affected him only moments before, how they still echoed through his mind even as she spoke calmly to him.

"Now that you know my name," he said, "I find it only fair for you to tell me yours."

Her eyes glinted — with what, he didn't know. "You didn't hear my friend say it earlier?"

"I'm afraid not."

She cocked her head, the moonlight dancing on her crystalline skin. "I am Kaelyn. Neither a daughter of High Fae or High Lord, I'm afraid."

And it was there again, the seething envy in her tone rising above her words themselves. Her change from banter to jealousy pricked Lucien's ears upward, and he watched as her face turned high. Away from him. Then he heard his own voice in his ears, soft, softer than he intended.

"You really are hungry, aren't you Kaelyn?"

"Yes, yes I am!" she snapped at him, a frustrated growl tingeing her bark. "And you reminding me doesn't make it any bet—"

Her snarl was cut short by her own surprised cry. Lucien pushed the handle of the basket tightly into her hands, sharing the weight of the apples for a moment before letting go, letting her take the basket and the fruits it held. Her gray eyes grew wide with surprise.

"Take it," he said simply. "We have enough food on our tables anyway. Eight course meals, you know."

He nearly kicked himself with his last statement, but she didn't seem to notice. She simply gazed at the wicker basket before holding it out to him once more.

"I don't need your charity, _My Prince_."

"Do you really have to be so damn stubborn?" He barked before taking a deep breath. "Yes. Yes, you do need it. And if you won't take it for yourself, take it for your friend."

"Andras doesn't need it either. We found bread—"

"And how long will that bread last you? Take the apples or I'll throw them in the river and nobody can have them."

She was silent for a heartbeat, her eyes flashing with an indignant pride; for a moment, he believed that she wouldn't take them. But she snarled once in frustration, turning her head downward and clutching the basket close to her chest. She met his gaze and nodded her thanks once.

"Have a good night, Lucien."

She turned on her heel, the basket still tight in her arms, and disappeared into the doorway of a small wooden house.

Moments later, Andras' whoop echoed through an open window, followed by Kaelyn's tender laugh, and Lucien smiled softly to himself.

* * *

 **What the even hell is pacing, I've already thrown in one plot twist and I'm only on the second chapter :U**

 **I don't plan for this story to be _too_ long. Ten chapters at least, twenty chapters at most. But anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed Kaelyn! She's such a hard character to write. :/ I hope I've done both her and Lucien justice; I do want to leave some room for her to develop as a character, so stay tuned!**

 **Don't forget to review, and if there's anything you'd like to see in the next couple of updates, be sure to tell me!**


	3. Artless Warning

**charmont: Glad to see you're enjoying it! The world could always use some more Lucien. :)**

 **Guest: That's really kind of you to say! I'm happy to know that you look forward to seeing more.**

 **qwiksylver: Thank you _so_ much for the review! Your feedback was awesome to see in my notifications, and I'm happy to see I've been portraying characters correctly. I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story!**

* * *

Dinner was quiet that night as Lucien prodded the food of his plate, his shoulders heavy under the weight of the day. His mother's concern felt nearly tangible around the table. Her stare, controlled and calm, contrasted sharply against his brothers' prying eyes, and Lucien dropped his gaze to the wine goblet standing near his hand.

"How was your trip to the square today, Lucien?"

His mother's voice was laced with the gentle force that raised his eyes again to her. With a smile that only she could see through, he chuckled.

"It was enjoyable."

"Nothing happened?" It was his second brother, Silas, who spoke next, eyes gleaming in lazy mischief. "You came home without the basket today. What did you do, feed it to the faeries?"

"Silas," Lucien's mother reprimanded quietly, but already Lucien had snarled at his brother in distaste.

" _No_. I'll have you know that a hole was punctured in the side by a beggar. I let one of the lesser faeries take it as kindle for their fire."

"Really? A basket handwoven by the best in Prythian couldn't even hold it's own against a weakling like that?"

"That's _enough_!"

Lucien's retort died in his throat as he looked at his mother guiltily. Her eyes were sharp and cutting, and she raised one hand to adjust her crown with an irritated sigh. "Your father will be returning from his Spring Court visit tomorrow. I expect all seven of you to be on your best behavior. That includes you, Lucien and Silas, so _please_ at least _practice_ keeping yourselves pleasant for tomorrow."

Silas shrugged and reclined in his chair, murmuring quietly to Thatcher as the two sipped their wine. Lucien, however, cocked his head curiously. "He's returning tomorrow?"

His mother nodded, tugging at her sleeves, and Lucien inclined his chin. "Will he have any news, do you suppose?"

"He sent a messenger today. Relations with the Spring Court have been at a high, fortunately; soon enough, we might even be able to walk freely from court to court."

"And a good thing for Lucien, too," Xavier yawned. "He can visit his friend, that new High Lord who's made everyone leave Spring. What was his name? No, never mind; I don't care."

Lucien breathed a scoff, rising from his seat. The squeaking chair reverberated across the floor of the dining hall. "I'm going to get some sleep."

"Have a good night's rest," Thatcher called after him, chuckling carelessly, and when the heavy oak doors heaved shut, the echo of the words cut short like a painful choke.

* * *

He walked in the garden later that evening, gazing quietly up at the moon. The stars reflected in his russet eyes, which slowly widened in awe. Often he had to wonder if this was what it was like to live in Night Court, to rest on the peaks of mountains and kiss the heavens like a lover. The thought gnawed at him.

"Thatcher's going into the square next week, you know."

The modest, analytical tone of the voice made Lucien turn his head to the speaker: the brother closest to him in age, and perhaps the only one he'd tolerate, leaned against the tree Lucien had lain under only that morning.

"Why are you telling me that, Malcolm? I knew that already, it'll be his turn to hand out rations."

"I'm telling you because he doesn't believe your basket story. Neither does Silas."

"Why does it matter whether I brought the basket back or not?" Lucien snapped. "It's just a basket."

"Don't you understand, you _fool_?" Malcolm snarled. "It's not about the basket, it's about the fact that it's _gone_. There's no reason for it to be gone now, is there? At least not a reason that makes any sense!"

"You're overanalyzing things," Lucien scoffed. "Why does there have to be a good reason that the basket is gone?"

"The fact alone that you came back without it is enough to cause suspicion, even with Mother. You never come back with less than an apple or two."

"So?" Lucien shook his head. "I gave them all out today."

Malcolm heaved a heavy sigh, spider-like fingers tangling themselves in the tight curls of his hair. He cursed Lucien under his breath for a moment before turning to him, eyes narrowing in distaste.

"You're so damn stubborn."

Lucien's own voice rang in his mind as he remembered the words he had spoken to Kaelyn only a few hours early. _Do you have to be so damn stubborn?_

Malcolm ignored the way Lucien seemed to tense, instead pacing impatiently on the grass. " _Everything_ makes everyone suspicious, Lucien. Have you forgotten just where you are? Or have you been spending too much time in Spring with that Tamlin, where nobody could care less about who inherits the throne?"

"Please. What does Tamlin have to do with anything?"

"He has to do with everything. Thatcher knows how close the two of you are, and that, of course, isn't any good for him as long as you're under Tamlin's protection— no, why am I even telling you about this? I just came here to warn you. You had better find a way to bring back that basket. Thatcher, Silas, even Xavier think that you're hiding something! And Xavier's a damned idiot!"

"They're making too much of nothing. I gave the basket to others for kindle, nothing else."

"Lucien," Malcolm's voice was nearly pleading now. "You acted strangely at dinner. We all noticed it. And to top it off, you claimed to have given away all the apples; you _never_ do that. You always come home early. If you really think they're not going to scrutinize that, then you're nothing but a fool. They're all vying for father's position; hell, even I am. So listen to me when I say that they, that _I_ , will do anything to get that position, and if that means looking at every little thing you do, so be it. You're the weakest right now, little brother. Don't count on me to defend you when they come for your head on a silver platter. You'd be better off expecting me to be at the other end of the sword."

Just like that, Lucien's tolerance snapped, and it was as though he was conversing with any one of his other brothers. His face contorted in anger, he was ready to spit on Malcolm. But instead his older brother cast him a sidelong warning glance before shaking his head and heading back to the manor.

* * *

"He doesn't listen to me."

"Malcolm," his mother's voice scolded gently. "You shouldn't have talked to him. You know how he is. He's going to make a point to give away all the apples now."

"Maybe. But he's still an idiot." Malcolm's form hunched over his writing desk, one hand pushing back his wavy auburn hair. He looked up to his mother in frustration, gaze close to pleading. "You know how the others are. They're vicious. If _I_ even manage to take the throne—"

His mother cut him off with a laugh. "Really, do you need to have such tunnel vision? There are things out there besides your father's throne, you know."

He glanced at her sharply before turning back to his writing. "I want to _survive_ this. And if I do, I want Lucien as my emissary. That is, if the moron even manages to keep himself alive. He's the only one out of most of us who has a clever head. The only thing wrong with it is that it's too trusting. Really, I don't know what to do with him."

"Then it's a good thing you don't have to." His mother stood and smoothed her gown, gliding to her son and placing a soft kiss on the top of his head, a display of affection reserved only for two of her children. "It's not your responsibility to take care of Lucien. It's mine, and you don't want to insult my skills, do you?" She stood and wrapped her embroidered shawl around her shoulders, running her fingers through Malcolm's silky hair as she looked over his shoulder at his writing. "Please, Malcolm, don't press on the matter any further. Thatcher and Silas will forget about it."

"No, they won't. Really, Mother, they're not going to rest until they find out what Lucien was doing today."

"Then your father will handle it. Rest now, and for Cauldron's sake, don't kill yourself over protecting your little brother. He's not a threat to them, and he's not a threat to you."

"Perhaps," Malcolm grumbled, leaning for a moment into his mother's gentle fingers. "We can only hope for the best. And that he'll _listen_ to me for one damn time."

She chuckled and shook her head, making her way out the door. "Good night, Malcolm," she called over her shoulder.

"Yes, yes. Good night, Mother."

* * *

 **Sorry about the late update. I've been having serious writer's block, but I know what I'm doing with this story now.**

 **I'm planning an ACOTAR oneshot series. It'll be a you request/I write thing. I'll be starting off with a generic Feyre/Tamlin, but if you guys have any requests (romantic/platonic ships, fluff, angst, specific/generic scenarios, etc.), just PM me or leave a review here on this story!**

 **Thanks for being patient!**


	4. Observant Gaze

**As per usual, all rights to ACOTAR go to Sarah J. Maas. The only characters I own are the ideas of the OCs.**

* * *

"Come with me to the square."

Lucien glanced up from his book tiredly to see Thatcher. His hand was hitched into his pocket lazily, a new basket of apples hooked into the loop of his elbow. Lucien raised his brow, and Thatcher's smile only grew. With a shake of his head, Lucien turned back to his book.

A week had passed since his trip, since his argument with Malcolm, since meeting Kaelyn. How he wished he'd heeded Malcolm's warning and taken back the basket when he could, punctured a hole in the side and shown it to his brothers as proof. They'd been breathing down his neck since that day, one with seemingly good intentions, the rest clawing for the opportunity to ruin Lucien's name.

"Why not?" Thatcher crooned.

"Because I was just there. A week ago. You can handle giving out those apples yourself."

"Can I? I only give about half whenever it's my turn. Perhaps I'll need your help giving them all out today." His eyes glinted in malicious amusement, and he prodded Lucien with his heel. "Come on, let's go. Maybe we'll go find that faerie who broke the last basket and—"

"Don't be so obsessive, Thatcher. Like I told Malcolm, you're overanalyzing things."

"Malcolm? You were talking to Malcolm?" Thatcher's lazy curiosity turned into a piqued one as he raised his brow. "And what did Malcolm say?"

"Nothing."

"Hm... well, whatever it is that Malcolm supposedly _didn't_ say, I wouldn't put too much faith in him. He's more backstabbing than your little mind gives him credit for."

Lucien's eye twitched as he shot Thatcher a glare, turning back to his book. Thatcher instead pulled it from his hands and placed it in his basket, piling the apples over it and rolling his neck in a command to follow. Without waiting to see if his youngest brother would obey, he turned and sauntered out the door, smirking when he heard the door slam, then open again. Lucien's footsteps echoed heavily behind him before Thatcher stopped and turned abruptly, cracking his jaw. Lucien's angry gait nearly slammed him into his brother's chest as their eyes met, Thatcher's furious and Lucien's indignant.

"When I said to come to the square with me, Lucien, that wasn't a _question_. That was an order. And it would do you well to follow my orders. Get on my good side, yes?"

He placed his hand on Lucien's head in a near-brotherly gesture. But he watched his fingers in Lucien's hair for a moment and wistfully imagined them crushing his skull, and removing his hand, smirked down at the shorter male.

"Come on now. We don't have all day."

-o-

Thatcher watched his little brother like a hawk, crinkling his nose when the thick dust smell of the square weighed heavily in the air. Try as he did to ignore the moans of the faeries around him, the noises pricked at the points of his ears, making him want to claw them off the sides of his head.

"Urgh..."

He'd handed off the basket to Lucien some time ago, and he almost felt a passing, grudging respect for him— he managed to hand the apples to the lesser fae, his fingers grazing theirs, and not want to rub his hands raw afterwards.

But it was one voice that interested Thatcher, if not only because it interested Lucien; Thatcher watched his brother's ears perk up at the sharp, cutting voice. His attention narrowed on a girl sitting by the fountain, playing what appeared to be a string game with a handsome boy whose locks framed his face like curls of smoke. The girl's long, nimble fingers picked impatiently at the bits of rope the boy held out to her, and Thatcher's attention drifted from the pair back to Lucien.

Lucien, whose entire being seemed to itch to stride up to them.

And as Thatcher took one more look at his brother, his lips stretched upward in a wicked grin.

-o-

"Andras," Kaelyn barked in exasperation. "You've made this difficult!"

Her companion smiled, brows raised in amusement. "We've been friends since birth, Kae; you should know how to solve this one by now."

"You've never given me this one before," she grumbled, trying to take apart the complicated web of rope that weaved between Andras' fingers. He laughed and slipped the rope off his hands, a muffled cry of indignation puffing Kaelyn's cheeks; she was _close_ to solving it, she only needed a bit more time—!

An apple hit her squarely in the chest, shock reeling her body as Andras laughed goodnaturedly. He pulled a knife from his pocket, quickly picking up the apple he'd tossed to her and shining off the dust on his shirt. Slicing it in half, he handed the bigger piece to her; she promptly shook her head and clasped her hands around the smaller portion. His eyes twinkled in wistful amusement. "You should have caught that."

"Well, I'm not High Fae."

"None of us are." He took a savory bite, the crispy red skin yielding to a juicy center. He moaned appreciatively. "It was wise of you to ration those apples."

"I wish we had more. And I wish we had a place to cool them. I hear that they taste even better when they're cold."

"I doubt they'd give more juice that way," he mused. "But something cool would be rather nice."

And that was when the hair on her neck stood on end, gray eyes widening in alertness. They darted around before landing on a man— _Lucien,_ she thought —whose eyes had fixed on her almost as determinedly as the leer on his face. She'd seen him before; seen him kicking the beggars, flaunting his riches.

It wasn't Lucien.

He was a terrifying presence, one who held himself with an elegance that was natural, yet not. His regality was colder than the winds of Winter Court, his posture as sure as the mountains of Night. And those eyes trained on her like he wanted to eat her alive, cool even as she met his feral gaze.

For one frightening moment, she wondered what it would be like to bed a man like him.

The thought sent a shiver across her back like creeping frost, slow and unpleasant (exactly what shivers should _not_ be, if she were asked). She bristled, glaring at the apple in her hands. She suddenly didn't have the appetite to eat anymore.

And then Andras laid a hand on her wrist, and the man turned away from her and walked toward someone... no, not someone, she thought sourly, but the High Lord's seventh son. She wondered what he was doing there— she'd seen enough of his brood out and about to know that they had a pattern, and this was not pattern.

She bit the inside of her cheek, her fingers searching for the calm thrum of her pulse beneath her throat.

"Are you alright?"

Andras' voice was, as usual, its usual amused tone, but laced with concern. Kaelyn nods, staring at the apple in disgust, and much to her friend's alarm, chucks it into the turbid fountain.

-o-

"She's beautiful, hm?"

Thatcher's voice was thick with unspoken malice, the words coated in challenge. It was almost a taunt— _"Talk to her, Lucien."_

Instead, Lucien glared. Not at Thatcher, not at the newly-woven basket, but instead at the girl whose hair seemed like a flame in the fountain-light, whose eyes seemed to glisten in unmerited pride. A copper-colored brow arched, and Lucien bristled under the gaze of both his brother and the chestnut-haired _brat_.

Both of them were daring him to talk to her, it seemed. Her friend, Andras, flicked his gaze between the three of them uncertainly before standing, rolling up the hem of his pants, and splashing through the water to retrieve half an apple, a single bite marring its edge. The conflicted look returned, and for a moment, it looked as though he were going to lob the apple right between Thatcher's eyes. (A scene that Lucien personally would have given up his title to see.)

Instead, Andras eyed the oldest son once more, and without even bothering to wash off the silt, took a bite into the dark red fruit.

Kaelyn's sonorant laughter echoed through Lucien like a promise.

-o-

They met up that night under the same moon of their first encounter.

She was silent, almost expectantly so. Thatcher had left earlier to train, the muscles seeming to ripple in anticipation under his powerful form. Again, there was no Andras, and again, he seemed to curdle under the full force of her attention. Her glare was piercing, refusing to see him as anything but what he was.

What she saw, he never wished to know.

"What are you doing here?" she snipped.

"' _How did you find me? What are you doing here?'_ Don't you have any more creative ways of greeting me?" Lucien quipped. He was rewarded with uninterested laughter, so different from that which Andras had managed to pull from her. But the corners of her eyes seemed to turn up just a little. Her tone, if he had to place it, was light.

"Don't you have better things to do than pay attention to what a lesser faerie does?"

His lips pursed at her keen observation, but he acted as though she had never spoken. "I could ask you what you're doing here, just as much as you could ask me."

Her laughter sounded more genuine this time, albeit just as mocking. He wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing. "In case you haven't noticed, I always take this route home."

"I haven't noticed. I have better things to do than _pay attention to what a lesser faerie does._ "

Her lips curled downward, the moon reflecting off the movement. The smooth outline of her form glowed red-orange, almost flickering like a candle's flame between lovers. He watched—waited—for her waspish reply—

But it never came.

"Good," she said instead, her long, luminescent body brushing past him as though he were a falling leaf. His eyes followed her, both perplexed and ashamed, and his mouth opened to call out to her retreating back, to apologize. The words had fallen from his mouth more aggressively, more offensively than he had intended, the retort hitting closer to home than he wished.

He was sure he knew. His mouth snapped shut, and he turned on his heel, stalking away from her, seething with irritation.

Still— Lucien darted back when he heard her door gently shut, and he poured the remaining apples into the lovingly-nurtured tree sprout by her threshold.

* * *

 **Sorry about the long wait! Please review; I hope things aren't going too fast or too slow. Let me know how I'm doing with both Kaelyn and Lucien!**


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